


Five Times Castiel Interrupted Dean Winchester

by lavenderxx



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also a kitten, Cas gets beat up, Did I mention there's a kitten, Dreams, F/M, Li'l vignettes with Dean and Cas, M/M, Sam's in here too somewhere, Singing in the car, Slash is a slow burn but it's there, Subtle slash but enough to warm your heart, baths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderxx/pseuds/lavenderxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 2: Cas finds a kitten, and Dean pushes a little too hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams pt I

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter set during season 4, sometime between "The Monster at the End of this Book" and "The Rapture".

In the dream Dean is in bed with Megan Dunham, a blonde girl he dated in high school—or maybe the one he slept with while in Philadelphia in ’03? The memories run together—kissing and nipping and occasionally sucking every bit of flesh he encounters, hands roaming freely under the sheet on the twin bed (twin? It must be high school), occupied with her angles and curves. Megan smells, even in this dream-cum-memory, like perfume and sweat, and Dean’s ears full of her encouraging whispers and gasps when, suddenly, there’s a familiar whoosh of wings, and from his vantage point on top of Megan, the toes of two dress shoes come into view on the floor to the his right. Dean looks up to see Castiel squinting down at him. 

“Dean,” Cas says in the infuriating monotone, “do you have a moment?”

Dean shouts “Jesus Crist!” and flies off Megan In half of a second he’s crabwalked his way to the foot of the bed and has covered himself with the gingham (gingham? Did Megan have gingham sheets? That might have been Nicole, in Albuquerque) sheets, and when he glances back to the place where Megan’s naked body should have been lying, it is gone. 

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?!” Dean demands, partly to the now-empty bed and partly to the angel standing adjacent the now-empty bed. His subconscious has betrayed him, has let Megan, with her big dewy eyes and pouting mouth and wonderfully kissable neck pull a disappearing act; but more importantly Castiel, in this interruption, has betrayed him. Not, Dean considers coldly, that there is much there to betray.

“I should come back,” Cas says after a moment.

“Too late now,” Dean barks back, gesturing to the tousled sheets. “Do you ever knock?” 

Dean can tell Castiel is trying to desperately to process Dean’s question; he says, “I—don’t—” and then, unsure of himself, moves over to the small table beside the bed and raps on it lightly with his knuckles.

Dean would think Cas is trying to be funny, but, unfortunately, he knows the angel too well. 

Dean sighs wearily and realizes that even in his unconscious he can never get away from this shit. He’s sitting on his haunches with the sheets about his waist, his arms hanging somewhat limply with his hands coming to rest in front of his groin. He’s weirdly aware of the tattoo on his chest moving up and down with his breathing. Even after all this time, he can’t help but consider his anti-possession symbol as something other than his body; something affixed to it, not part of it. As for the angel handprint on his shoulder…well, he prefers not to think about it. 

“All right, Roma Downey,” Dean says after a few calming breaths. “You’ve invaded my dream. Something’s obviously up.”

Dean raises his face to meet Castiel’s eyes and, if he didn’t know better, Dean would say Castiel had been examining the curvature of his shoulders, and it freaks him out a bit. He’s well aware of Cas’s loose grip on human etiquette, but checking him out when he’s not looking, even in the most scientific, non-sexual ways (as Cas does) makes Dean’s skin crawl a little bit. 

(Or, it should, anyway, but it doesn’t, and Dean can’t figure out why, except that this is a dream and everything feels a bit fuzzy, like they’re both swimming in tapioca, and so this time, he writes it off.)

Dean only says, “Hey, buddy, there’s a time and a place,” very crossly, and then proceeds to drape the bed’s remaining sheets over his shoulders. “Now are you gonna tell me why you’re here or not?”

Castiel is perpetually indecipherable to Dean Winchester, and here, in Dean’s own dream, it is no different. Cas’s face, even in its total openness, its complete lack of pretension, is unreadable, and Dean, who prides himself on his ability to read people, finds his unendingly infuriating. Castiel refuses to be read.

Dean watches the angel gather his thoughts.

“I was wondering,” Cas says finally, and sits down on the bed an acceptable but not entirely comfortable distance away from Dean. “Considering your situation with Sam, have you considered turning to the Bible? With this being a time of trouble, I mean.” Castiel turns to Dean with imploring eyes. “The Good Book helps, often times, to quell that which is uncertain in one’s heart.”

Dean is so gobsmacked at this that he cannot fathom an answer, nor can he construct a sentence for several seconds.

“Have you tried, for example, the Book of Psalms? Twenty-three is my personal favorite. I know it’s a popular one, it’s almost cliché, but I love the extended metaphor, and the juxtaposition in the verses: the green valleys that God leads us to, and leading us through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, only to come dwell in the House of the L—”

Dean is unable to keep his voice down when he says, “Cas!” so it comes out much more like a shout.

“You’re a trench coat-wearing bastard if you really tore me away from a second one-night stand with Megan Dunham to talk to me about the goddamn Bible,” says Dean.

Castiel falters. “It’s probably best not to take the Lord’s name in vain when speaking about—”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” says Dean, shifting around uncomfortably. If he were clothed, he would stand up and pace, gesticulating wildly. But from the foot of the bed, swaddled in sheets, he can only glower. “You really don’t get how you screwed me over here, or why I have absolutely no interest in reading the Bible to, what did you say, quell that—”

“That which is uncertain in one’s heart,” finishes Castiel, sounding very sheepish. 

“…Do you?!” spouts Dean. He wishes he could wake up, tries to will himself to wake up, but feels the tapioca pulling him down and trapping him inside his own head, on the twin bed, with Cas. The room, which must be Megan Dunham’s room, is starting to fray at the edges; the blue walls are starting to warp like he’s taken a mild amount of hallucinogen. 

“I’m sorry, Dean, I wanted to…” Cas says, “I wanted to offer assistance, I truly did.” 

He stands up, eyes downcast, and Dean realizes Cas has arranged his facial features to resemble what penitence looks like on the face of a normal human being.

“It’s just, Cas,” Dean says, backpedaling just a bit, simply because this look is something new, “You don’t really believe in all of that? After everything so far? The Lord being a Shepherd, leading his…lambs or whatever, his goats beside the still waters? That’s such crap and you know it.”

Castiel’s eyes brighten considerably. “You are familiar with Psalm 23?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, ok? All we do is stay in hotels, dude. I’ve read the Bible once or twice. Plus I’ve been brushing up,” he says, pulling the sheet more securely around his body, “you know, in light of this whole apocalypse thing.”

“And the Book hasn’t offered you any solace?” asks Castiel, genuinely, but still only mildly, surprised. 

“None whatsoever,” replies Dean. “It’s a book, just like any other book. Or newspaper. Or porn magazine. The Bible doesn’t even have pictures, though, so…”

There’s that sarcasm this conversation was missing, thinks Dean, and is proud of himself. Plus, from the look on Cas’s face, it appears he’s successfully derailed the conversation. 

Castiel’s shoulders slump and to Dean it looks like he’s accepted defeat. He says, “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you, in that case.”

Dean’s just glad he doesn’t have to talk about God, that fucking asshat. “Just…knock, next time,” he says, and then clarifies, “before entering.”

Castiel leans towards Dean, outstretching his hand, “I’ll return you to your normally scheduled sleep pattern,” he says, and before Dean can protest he’s shuddering awake like a freight train hitting the end of its track.

Dean bolts upright. He’s still dressed, lying in a small bed in a hotel room that smells like canned peas. Moonlight is pouring in between the blinds in the window overlooking the hotel parking lot. He remembers he’s in Bowling Green, Missouri. A small snore wafts through the darkness to let him know that Sam is across the room, safe, and asleep.

Dean doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about, but when he lays his head back down, the pillow smells faintly of perfume, and he before he blacks out he thinks he hears, somewhere, the rush of wings.


	2. Just Kitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas finds a kitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in season 5, between 5.04 “The End” and 5.06 “I Believe the Children Are Our Future”

Something in the undercarriage of the Impala is making a sound like a tambourine, so Dean chooses a quiet, cloudy afternoon to slide under her and check it out. He leaves Sam and Bobby, who are hard at work researching a case involving a small town in Idaho where, best any of the three men can figure, an outbreak of reanimated pets are coming back from the grave to wreck havoc on the veterinarians who put them down (“No thanks guys,” Dean had said, chuckling weakly and showing them palms of his hands, “I’ve seen Pet Semetary one too many times”) inside, preferring to work on the Impala accompanied only by the radio and the sound of traffic on a faraway highway. 

After an hour and a half’s work he still can’t find the source of the noise. He’s listening to Black Sabbath’s Volume 4 album on cassette and taking a second to regroup when to his undying frustration a new noise begins leaking out of the car, from somewhere, it seems, in the vicinity of the gas tank. It’s weird and sharp and squeaking and unlike anything Dean’s ever heard come out of the Impala before. 

After a few seconds, though, the noise stops, and Dean starts to think maybe he’s been inhaling too many fumes. He digs his heels into the ground and rolls out from underneath the car, almost directly into Castiel’s shins.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, slightly irritated but making a conscious effort to smother it. He sits upright on the creeper and looks up at the angel, blocking the feeble sun from his eyes with a raised hand. “What’s up?”

Castiel appears not to have heard him. “Dean,” he says, and Dean can see Cas’s eyes are wide with panic. “What do I do?”

Dean starts to ask, but Castiel dips his hand gingerly into the pocket of his over coat, and withdrawals a tiny furry black thing with pointed ears and huge, blinking eyes. The thing opens its mouth and emits, over and over again, the noise Dean thought was coming from the Impala.

“Aw, dude,” groans Dean, “is that a kitten?”

“I was in Tallahassee,” Cas begins to explain. He’s holding the thing out in front of him, gripping it loosely in his right hand. As Castiel speaks it alternates between trembling and wiggling in a noncommittal effort to free itself.

“I was—what’s the terminology? Following a lead,” he continues, “but it doesn’t matter.”

Cas’s voice extra gravelly, Dean notices, but tinged with excitement, which makes him sound a little strangled, like he’s is using a muscle that has atrophied. 

“I was in a parking lot surveying a building for demons when I heard that, the noise it’s making now, coming from beneath a dumpster.” Castiel twists his arm around and brings the small animal very close to his face, examining it with a mixed expression of scientific interest and what looks to Dean maybe like adoration. “Its heart was beating so quickly and it sounded so scared. Its mother has abandoned it or lost it; I don’t think it even knows what food is. I was going to kill it—”

Dean is horrified, but if it registers on his face it doesn’t matter because Castiel can’t stop looking at the kitten, and the kitten can’t stop looking at Castiel.

“—But I thought better of it. I picked it up and held it like this; it didn’t even try to get away. It has talons but I don’t think it knows how to use them.”

“Give me that,” Dean snaps, and deftly wrenches the kitten away from Castiel, cupping it in both hands. He uses his thumb to stroke the fur between its ears. It does not purr, nor does it look at him. Its eyes are milky blue and enormous and they don’t point in the same direction, which only serves to endear it more to Dean.

“Did the jerkface angel try to hurt you?” he coos, and then to Castiel he says, “They’re claws, by the way. Not talons. Birds have talons.”

“But, Dean,” says Cas, again clearly not having heard him, “that’s not all. There was…a girl.”

“…A girl?”

“She was beautiful,” Castiel says. “She approached me as I was holding it…”

Dean grabs the kitten in one hand—it could easily fit in his palm twice over—and turns it on its back. “It’s a he,” he says, “judging by the—” 

“Testicles,” Cas finishes for him.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Dude. Euphemisms. We talked about this.”

Castiel is undeterred. “She approached me while I was holding him,” he continues. “She had hair the color of a field of wheat after a rainstorm falling in loose curls to the small of her back, and part of it was pulled back and secured with an elastic band, and her eyes were the color of freshly-harvested hazelnuts, and her—”

“What are you, a romance novel?” Dean asks, but Castiel barrels on.

“Nose had a small ridge in it. She had a tee-shirt on it with a quote from the Reverend Pat Robertson, whom I do not particularly like, stating that feminism causes women to become lesbians and leave their families, but Dean, I think she was wearing it ironically, not to show support of the man but instead to ridicule him!”

Castiel is breathless. He’s wearing a stupid, shit-eating grin on his face, and Dean for some reason finds himself, in spite of the kitten he’s holding, very annoyed. He decides to go for bluntness.

“She sounds hot,” Dean says. 

“She asked me what if I had found the kitten in the dumpster. I think she believed someone had thrown it away. I corrected her, saying that I had found it underneath. She volunteered to take it to a nearby animal sanctuary, but I…for some reason, I told her I would take it.” Castiel’s brow furrows. “Dean, why did I do that?”

But in that moment Dean’s trying to reign in some emotions he’s not sure why he’s experiencing. He feels angry at the girl and at Cas, and something in his brain is nagging him, teasing him. The kitten starts to writhe around in his hands and suddenly he feels like pushing Castiel a bit. So, he asks, “How were her boobs?”

Castiel looks immediately embarrassed and casts his eyes downward. “I did not…”

“Don’t lie, dude, you read her tee-shirt. You saw.”

“I did not…” 

“Come on,” Dean probes, feeling a little out of himself, a little more yokel than he likes, because he sure, he likes breasts, but there’s something weird about talking about them, and something he doesn’t understand, some remnant anger at the Cas of 2014 at Camp Chitaqua, is pushing him to see what the angel will say when made uncomfortable about a thing which Dean takes for granted. “You’re…inhabiting the body of a red-blooded American, you saw. What were they, watermelons? Tomatoes? I mean, boobs are boobs, they’re all good—”

“I did not notice, Dean,” Cas snaps menacingly, and now he’s pissed, and Dean knows why, and all of a sudden he feels shitty. The kitten starts to mew again.

“I saw her aura,” Castiel says, “the way I see a demon’s true face, and it was beautiful, or rather it enhanced what physical beauty she might have already had. She motives were pure; she was selfless, and selflessly concerned for the kitten. I can tell these things about people by looking at them. I doubt I need to remind you I am an angel of the Lord.” 

He’s practically seething and Dean’s embarrassed but trying to hide it by not breaking eye contact.

“And,” Castiel continues, verging on shouting, “I don’t think you should compare facets of women’s anatomy to produce!”

The kitten is wriggling almost beyond Dean’s ability to hold him and mewing loudly and constantly, and so Dean extracts himself from the situation by hauling ass into the house, leaving Castiel and the broken Impala in his wake.

“Bobby!” he shouts as he goes in the back door. “We got a small problem!”

Sam and Bobby are both hunched over some ancient-looking tomes in the living room. When Dean enters carrying the kitten, Sam jumps up.

“That’s not a zombie cat, is it?” he asks, eyes flitting nervously between it and Dean’s face.

“Un, no,” Dean assures him, “this is just a regular cat. I think. Cas found him.”

“Cas?” Sam asks, glancing out the window. “Where is he?”

“He left, probably. We—I mean, he got mad.”

“Ya’ll had a lover’s spat?” asks Bobby, never one to mince words. 

“A small disagreement,” Dean frustratedly corrects him, “about what to do with Dr. Whiskers here.” The last bit is a lie, of course, but he covers well. 

Bobby, without any trace of humor, says, “Well, I’d say fry him up, although I bet he’d be stringy.”

Dean and Sam both look at him, horror stricken. 

Bobby rolls his eyes. “It was a joke, idjits.”

“It seems neighbor down the road seems to have animals,” says a voice from behind the trio. They all turn and are wholly unsurprised to see Castiel in the corner of the room, voice and face like thunder. “Perhaps you could call her, see if she would take the cat in.”

Bobby, grumbling, sets off into the kitchen to make the call. Dean puts the kitten down on Bobby’s desk and the three men flank it, making sure it neither pees on the papers there, nor attempts to eat them, nor tumbles off the side.

“Dean said you guys had an argument,” says Sam, testing the waters.

“Dean was being obtuse,” replies Castiel flatly.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you both,” says Dean. 

Dean’s eyes are locked on the kitten as it meanders around and over the books, but then he hears the sound of tufts of air being expelled out Sam’s nose, and he realizes his brother is sniggering.

“Fuckin’ shameless,” says Dean stage-whispers, but it only makes his brother laugh more. When Dean looks up, he sees that Castiel, shockingly, is smirking. 

Bobby wheels back into the room. “Pat’s gonna take him,” he says. “She’s got a female who’s just had a litter, she should be full of milk. She reckons that’s Simba here’s best bet.”

Bobby finds an old shoebox and puts the mewing little cat inside before Dean, painfully, places the lid over the plaintive meows. He carries the box outside to where Pat, a heavyset and kindly-looking middle-aged woman, sits in her idling car, and on the way out he speaks softly to the kitten, telling it that it will be all right, that hopefully have a new home in a matter of minutes. He tells him he knows what its like to lose a parent, and that it sucks, but that maybe he’ll have a surrogate brother or sister to keep him company. Dean allows himself to feel just a little sad watching Pat drive off with the shoebox in the passenger’s seat.

Castiel comes out of the house and joins Dean. They both watch the dust from Pat’s car settle. Cas won’t look at Dean, but he does talk. 

“The girl said to me, ‘Oh, did you just find him?’ I said, ‘Yes, he was under the dumpster.’ She said, ‘There’s an animal sanctuary close by, I could take it there if you wanted,’ and then I,” and Castiel breaks off for a second. “I don’t know why. I wanted the girl to think…I was as capable and as pure in motive as her. I think I wanted to impress her? I told her, ‘No, I’ll take it. I know what to do with it. I know a good home for it.” Castiel pauses, thinking, and then says somewhat pathetically, “It was a lie! I didn’t know any of those things.”

“Love makes us do stupid shit,” Dean replies simply.

Dean is praying that Castiel won’t ask him to explain himself, explain why he purposefully (cruelly?) tried to get Cas to talk about the blonde girl’s chest. Dean’s praying because he himself has no idea why, and he’s not inviting suggestions. It had been some kind of weird out-of-body experience, like he had been—and he shudders mentally at the word—possessed. Then a different word jumps into his head, and he entertains it for just a millisecond before dismissing it.

Jealousy, really? Fuckin’ me, jealous? Of the girl with the fucking hazelnuts for eyes?

“I did not love her,” says Cas matter-of-factly. 

“That’s…that’s just a saying we have,” Dean replies.

“Oh.”

They stand together for another few seconds. Then Castiel sniffs once, adjusts his coat, and then finally looks at Dean.

“The Impala,” he says. “I think there’s something wrong with a wheel bearing. Left front.” 

Dean looks sideways at the angel, thinking for a second Castiel is speaking in some weird code. But there’s an earnest look on Cas’s face and, just before vanishing, the left corner of his mouth pulls upward just a bit.

Dean goes back over to the Impala. She’s still there, still regal, still perfect in her obsidian glory. The Black Sabbath tape has stopped, and if there’s any traffic on the highway, he can't hear it; the wind must be blowing the sound in the opposite direction.

And now Dean feels weirdly alone.


End file.
